


The Long Distance Blues

by shihadchick



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Closeted Character, Friendship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, thoughts about coming out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 12:13:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8532592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: It's not easy to be in a long term relationship with someone who lives in another city. Sometimes, all you can see is the spaces where they're not there.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Stickmarionette for betaing, and to musicspeakstoo for the wonderful fanmix, feedback and encouragement. <3 
> 
> Thank you to the Hockey Big Bang mods for running this, too. 
> 
> You can find musicspeakstoo's mix [here!](http://8tracks.com/musicspeakstoo/long-distance-blues#)

Nick’s unpacking when he hits a shirt that’s just subtly the wrong shade of blue, something he clearly hadn’t noticed in the rush to jam all of his clothes into his bag that afternoon. 

He’d been moving fast enough that he wasn’t really paying any attention to what he was packing, all too conscious that they were about a twenty minute drive from the airport and bag drop was going to close in fifteen, and while it wasn’t like he had anything he couldn’t carry on—no skates, no penknife at this point in the summer, and no liquids he couldn’t replace just as easily in New York—he’d also been hoping they’d still manage to get there with enough time that he wouldn’t need to worry. Nick’s on planes a lot, they’re frequently delayed, there was every chance that could have happened.

Of course, this time, his flight had been perfectly on time and he’d had to run through the airport and sweat his way through security, shirt sticking to his back and his bag thumping into the side of his thigh with every step. It was a non-ideal end to what had otherwise been an excellent day, really.

Upon slightly more mature reflection, Nick is pretty sure that the next time Brandon suggests they’ve got time to go back to bed before he _really_ needs to leave, he should say no. 

He’s just as sure that he’s not going to, though.

Nick shakes the creases out of the shirt, can’t help the grimace or the surge of affection at the Blue Jackets logo plastered on the front of it. He should just send it back to Brandon, it’s not like he could wear it without prompting a whole lot of awkward questions that he’s not particularly inclined to answer. Playing in the same division, fuck. He’s not complaining at all about the built in fact that they’ll get to see each other four or five times a season now instead of twice, but it’s sure as hell also a complication. 

At least they’d had one game last year to prove that they didn’t bring anything off the ice onto it, or vice versa.

That might be just a little more difficult this year, Nick thinks. 

He should wash the shirt and send it back, and also maybe point out that Brandon is damn well buying him dinner next time they meet up, because Nick had to abandon half his shaving kit at Brandon’s place in Pittsburgh rather than run the risk of losing it to the TSA. A cotton t-shirt that’s already starting to crack around the print is not at all a fair trade.

Instead, he finds himself refolding it more carefully and tucking it into the corner of his dresser. It’s probably not that weird if he hangs on to it for a while. They’re not going to see each other outside Skype until late October anyway. Nick can just bring it with him on that roadie. 

He doesn’t remember to.

* * *

Nick has some of the guys over early in the season. It’s just dinner and fucking around with his Xbox, some low key team bonding, time to all get on the same wavelength again. They order in, Nick’s not spending hours making food for this many people unless he’s grilling, and the last time he looked outside it was snowing, so. Picking off a menu and keeping an ear out for the doorbell it is. Luckily, delivery gets there before anything really gets loud.

Mario Kart gets as heated as it ever does, and Nick’s engaged in a battle royale with JT and Matty, with Cal a mile behind them all and cursing up a storm. 

“Yeah, suck it!” Matty crows as his kart makes it over the finishing line about half an inch ahead of Johnny’s, and he throws up his hands in a deliberately obnoxious celly.

That’s not exactly unprecedented, and Nick would probably do the same thing himself if he hadn’t been taken out by a blue shell coming around the final curve. Unfortunately, what Matt hadn’t realized was that Hammer’s drink was on the edge of the coffee table right behind him, and Matt’s flailing arm knocks it—and the soda in it—right back into Johnny’s lap.

“Oh, shit,” Matt said, turning to check out the damage. “Sorry, Cap.”

“It didn’t break at least,” John says, as borderline monotone as ever, and he sets the now-empty glass back on the table, looking down at the wet patch spreading across his shirt, pulling the cotton away from his skin with a grimace.

“There’s cloths and whatever in the kitchen,” Nick says, getting to his feet, and Matt follows, going toward the kitchen without waiting for further instructions. Nick’s pretty sure he can leave the other guys to clean up in there, so he looks at JT and says, “here, I’ll grab you a shirt and we can dump yours in the machine.”

“Sounds good,” Johnny says, following Nick into his bedroom.

Nick doesn’t think anything of it; it’s not as if he leaves anything weird out in the open even though it’s not like anyone but him is usually in his room. He has cleaners in once a week or so, anyway. 

JT doesn’t bother waiting for further instructions, stepping into Nick’s bathroom and pulling his shirt off while Nick digs through his dresser. He runs the tap, rinsing it out in the sink, and he’s wringing it out—damp but clean—by the time Nick sticks his head around the edge of the doorway, a t-shirt scrunched up in his hands.

“Here you go,” Nick says, tossing him the shirt. “Pretty sure we wear the same size.”

John fields it easily enough, shaking it out and starting to pull it over his head before he looks down and says, “Uh, Nick—”

Nick turns, halfway out the door, and sees as he looks back that Johnny’s peeled it off again, is holding out the t-shirt with one eyebrow raised.

“What?” Nick starts to say, and then he focuses on the logo on the shirt and breathes, “Uh. Fuck.”

John quirks a smile at him, reassuringly dry. “Something you wanted to tell the front office?”

“I, um,” Nick flounders, because he doesn’t know how to explain this. “It’s not mine, I just—forgot to return it.”

Maybe Johnny will buy that, it’s probably not all that uncommon. It’s not like there isn’t still a bunch of Gophers and Eden Prairie stuff lingering in the back corners of his closet at home, too. Not like he hasn’t seen John slouching around on off days in beat-up Oshawa tees, or a too-short pair of sweats with the Knights logo. 

That theory probably doesn’t hold a whole lot of water considering Nick’s never been in Columbus for more than a visit, though. And Nick is definitely busted, because Johnny’s looking illuminated, and his grip tightens on the fabric when Nick tries to grab it back. 

His voice is low when he speaks again, although maybe that’s also because Nick’s feeling a little shaky and probably not managing to hide it, adrenaline spiking even as he tries to talk himself down. 

“Leds, do you—” There’s a pause while John rearranges his thoughts, carefully picking out the right words. “Am I wrong in suggesting maybe you have this for the same reason I sometimes used to find Oilers stuff in with mine?”

The roaring in Nick’s ears goes silent like he’s flicked a switch, and all he can do is blink dumbly at his captain, standing there calmly just suggesting—

He can’t be saying what Nick thinks he is.

“Um,” Nick says, sounding strangled. “Maybe?” That’s not committing himself too much, it’s not outing him or Brandon, it’s giving Johnny a chance to walk it back if he realizes what it sounds like he’s saying. 

Johnny just gives him a tiny smile, one that’s more understanding than Nick maybe deserves. 

He spreads his shirt out over the towel rail to dry out, and then steps out of the bathroom, patting Nick’s shoulder as he walks past him, and dropping the Jackets shirt back onto Nick’s bed before helping himself to another shirt out of the dresser. That one is at least an Islanders one, and nothing that’s going to raise any questions when they go back to the living room.

JT just gives him another sympathetic smile and says, very carefully, “Turns out a blue and orange shirt inside out looks pretty much the same as orange and blue. Let me know if you wanna talk some day, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, not really sure what else to say. “I—thanks, John.”

“C’mon,” JT says. “Let’s go make sure the rest of the team hasn’t destroyed your living room or anything, huh?”

“You bet,” Nick says, and follows him back out there, thinking hard. 

* * * 

The thing was, John hadn’t even been packing in a hurry. He’d just been going through his usual start of the season routine, splitting his clean laundry into piles: to leave at home, and to take back to New York. He’d worked methodically through the pile, separating out the few game-day items—although most of those got dry-cleaned anyway—and the workout shirts plus a few newer things he’d want to wear through the season, and leaving everything he didn’t wear outside of the offseason in his chest of drawers. 

Some of it doubled up, of course, and he was never going to run short of anything much, especially not t-shirts, since the trainers and equipment guys tended to load them up with those faster than even John could wear them through. It meant he didn’t have to take a whole lot with him at least, since he knew there’d be an armful of whatever new tweak to the logo the front office had signed off on, or whatever new graphics stuff Nike was working on just waiting in his stall for him.

So, figuring he’d have maybe a week—and he’d want some sloppy, comfortable gear to sleep in or just wear at home—John snagged three or four t-shirts out of the stack he was leaving in the dresser and stuffed them into his suitcase without taking a second look.

It wasn’t until he was unpacking in Long Island two days later that he even noticed, and he sat down hard on the end of his bed, t-shirt crumpling up in his hands. He felt like he’d been kicked in the chest, more shocked than he thought he had any right to feel at seeing the curving letters above the oil drop logo; the letters spelling out Edmonton and not New York.

He hadn’t realized Sam had left any of his clothes. Hell, Sam probably hadn’t even realized. They tended to dump all their laundry together over the course of the summer, grabbing their own stuff when they needed it, but not even stopping to think about it, really. They’d been doing that for years, just another one of the little easy, ordinary ways their lives intertwined through the off-season. The surprising thing was probably that this hadn’t happened before, John thought dumbly, his hands still clenched too tight in the cotton. 

God, it had been a whole week and already he missed Sam so much. The ache was always sharpest at the start of the season, going from living in each other’s pockets enough that they could snipe and fight and pretend like they were actually sick of each other to knowing that there were hours on a plane and more questions than either of them wanted to answer any time soon separating them. Miles and miles of distance, and the aching silence that was trying not to be to obvious, trying not to distract each other. They chose hockey even before they chose each other, and John’s never regretted it entirely, but—

Sometimes it just hurts.

* * *

It takes longer than John quite expects for Leddy to bring up their conversation about t-shirts again.

Well, John’s not that disingenuous; he knows it’s not really about t-shirts, or even logos or other teams. It’s about what that suggests, and that’s probably exactly why Leddy doesn’t bring it up for a couple of weeks. 

Maybe he should have seen that coming. 

But he hasn’t been in this position before, not quite. 

There are people who know, of course; there are maybe more people in his life who know about Sam than there are who _don’t_. John would never have credited the notion of an open secret with this much lasting power if he hadn’t been personally involved. Some of the team know, too; the guys who’ve been there the longest, who’ve known him since he was drafted and since before he joined the team. 

He would have guessed, if someone had asked, that Leddy already knew too.

Hammer certainly does, but at the same time, it’s not like John doesn’t appreciate this clear evidence that his life isn’t actually all that interesting to people who aren’t living it, that it’s not gossip worth spreading. That’s nice, actually.

He keeps telling himself this partly to cover the sting that comes from thinking that Leddy’s had this and never shared it with any of them. There’s no reason he should have to, and Leddy’s quiet, and a little reserved, private in his own way. Maybe John should have recognized that, forget any of that gaydar nonsense. The little gaps in his sentences, the pauses where another person clearly lives… that’s what John should have recognized.

But it’s not as if he doesn’t understand why Leddy hasn’t said anything; not before then, and not since.

He’d looked at John uncertainly the next morning at practice, but John had just tapped his shinpads with his stick and given him a quick nod, reassurance that nothing needed to change if Leddy didn’t want it to. John likes Nick, likes having him on their team. He fits in well. John wants to reassure him, and from experience, if nothing else, he knows the best way to do that is not to say anything until Leddy asks him to. Not to push.

John shouldn’t feel like he has all this extra life experience, doing this. Just because he’s been doing it longer, well. 

It’s hard to remember sometimes that he is only a year older than Leddy. 

While John is careful not to do or say anything to Nick about any of this, he can’t quite stop himself thinking about it. Maybe that’s unfair—John doesn’t want to think of anyone else spending their time wondering about him and his love life—but it seems unavoidable.

John’s used to living his life and balancing a long-distance relationship with another professional hockey player, that’s normal. That’s his normal. 

He assumed he wasn’t the only one, because statistics exist, and unlikely is not the same thing as impossible.

But it’s the first time he’s actually known, for sure, and even if Nick had looked too startled and momentarily afraid—and John’s stomach twisted uncomfortably at the memory of that, all-too-sympathetic nausea—that had been more than enough for John to be certain that he did know. That he was right.

It was possible he felt a little guilty about the fact Nick hadn’t already known. 

But John’s a private person too, and there are some places he has never wanted to be the first. There’s a little bite of shame at that thought, burning at the back of his throat, but it’s still true, and still not enough to change his mind. Not yet. Maybe some day. 

John’s actually the one who starts it, in a roundabout way. He’s moping at the end of the table when they’re out for dinner in California, not joining in on any of the conversations going on around him, torn between mulling over the shot he’d missed in the third the night before—they’d won, but they’ve started so much slower this year and missing a week with the flu sure hasn’t helped him feel like he’s back at full speed—and counting down again and again how long it’s going to be until they see the Flyers. 

Orange and black would probably be quite difficult to mix up with blue and orange by mistake, John figures, but he can’t say he’s not tempted to swipe one of Sam’s shirts when he sees him next just on general principle. He’d left a couple of Yotes shirts at John’s place in Toronto, if only because the Flyers hadn’t got around to sending him anything before training camp. John thinks he’ll like having Sam in the East for the first time ever, definitely likes knowing he’s only a ninety minute train ride away. Not that John really has time to ride the train to Philadelphia on a whim, but it’s nice to know that he could if he needed to. 

Of course, the first time John’s ever looking forward to playing the Flyers is the season where it feels like they’ve been playing for months and haven’t seen them yet. It’s only two weeks away now, but that feels as if it’s eons away; too many games and too many miles between where they are and home, between that and where John is. He tries to remind himself of five seasons of seeing Sam twice, if that; Christmases when they could get them. But this season was meant to be easier, and so John finds himself fretting that it’s not easy enough, that it’s too easy.

John should, he thinks, spend more of his time worrying about his game than his relationship.

He doesn’t stop, though.

“Hey, you remember we won last night, right?” Nick says, pitched low enough that John can hear him over the noise from the other tables around them, but not so loud that anyone else at their table even glances down. 

John appreciates that, really. When John’s in this kind of mood he’d rather not have half a team bugging him and trying to joke him out of it. 

“Two to go, right?” John says, automatically, and lets himself focus on the Kings instead. 

Nick just shakes his head and doesn’t get drawn on that, though. “You’re allowed to have a good time, man. Kick back for a bit.”

It’s not the first time John’s heard that. It’s not even the first time he’s heard it from Leddy, although it’s usually coming from other guys first. 

“Long week,” is what he eventually says, leaning back in his chair, trying to stretch the ache out of his shoulder where he’d taken a knock from Thornton. 

Without really thinking about it, John slides his phone out of his pocket and taps the screen to life, just checking if there’s any messages or notifications waiting for him. It’s a little futile—he would’ve felt it vibrate if there were—but he feels better checking anyway. It’s not like he’s worried or even as if he’s expecting anything; Sam has games and his own travel to worry about. But it’s been a couple of days since they were able to line their schedules up enough to do more than say hello in passing, and that sucks more than a little.

He puts his phone away again and makes an effort not to sigh, telling himself he should get his act together already, he should be a good example.

“Ah,” Nick says, sounding like John’s answered a question he hadn’t even realized Nick was asking.

“What?” John asks, brows drawn together. 

He’s not sure if Nick’s going to answer at first, he pauses for a long moment and then seems to come to a decision, pushing his plate away, an unequivocal signal that he’s done. It’s not like any of them are going to stick around to order dessert, and John’s just been pushing the last few bites of grilled vegetables around his plate while he was thinking anyway; they really all should just get up and head back to their hotel soon. Any minute now.

“Want to take a walk?” Nick asks him a second later, turned in his chair so he’s facing John, blocking the two of them off from the rest of the table. 

“Yeah,” John says, not stopping to think about it. Maybe that’ll clear his head. 

Nick turns away again briefly, nudging Clutter with his elbow and saying, “Gonna head out now. You guys good?”

Cal gives Nick a sharp look, but a quick glance at John seems to explain things to him too, and he gives a short nod.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure one of these assholes covers dinner.”

A chorus of protest arises from the other end of the table at that, but John has every confidence that he’ll make sure they settle up without too much hassle. He makes a mental note to do something to pay that forward again soon too, but Nick’s already pushed his chair back, standing up and shrugging his jacket on, waiting for John to catch up. 

“Later,” John mutters as he stands up to leave and Cal nods at him directly, silently approving.

He doesn’t say much of anything as they work their way out of the room, just following Nick’s lead. Nick heads outside, but instead of turning left, he takes the opposite direction, walking away from the hotel. The sidewalks are broad enough that they can walk side by side easily, and it’s only just starting to get dark out, warm enough out to still be comfortable in shirtsleeves or a suit jacket.

Nick doesn’t say anything more at first, and John appreciates that. It’s easy to just walk in silence, making their way up the road, making room for people going the other way to step past them. 

“I got to catch up with Brandon the other day,” Nick says eventually, and John silently congratulates himself for calling that one correctly, even as he’s struck anew by how perfectly straightforward Nick is in just saying that. How unprecedented and enormous and utterly ordinary it all is. “It’d been a while so, you know. It was good.” 

His pause after speaking is much more expectant this time, and John’s not immune to that, but he’s also not sure what to say. 

“You caught up the other week too, right?” John asks carefully. He thinks that’s okay; that Nick wouldn’t have started this conversation if he didn’t want John to maybe ask questions as well. 

“Yeah,” Nick says, and when John sneaks a look at him the grin he’s wearing is nothing less than smug. 

Yeah, John knows that look. John’s worn that look. Nick definitely caught up with his guy, and he definitely got laid. Damn, John misses actual not-phone-or-skype sex. He sighs again, and this time Nick gives him a ‘buck up, soldier’ type of punch in the upper arm.

“Nice for some,” John says eventually, and Nick gives him a look, and then a second, sharper one, before biting back an involuntary bark of laughter.

“Yeah, it was,” Nick says. “So, maybe the guys are giving you a pass right now, but you know you’re gonna have to snap out of this, right?”

“Snap out of what?” John says, aware he sounds like he’s sulking and, well. That’s probably because he is. But Nick’s the only one who’s going to see him, so maybe he’s due. Maybe it’ll help, even.

“Uh-huh,” Nick says. “That. Come on. I know it’s not easy sometimes, but—”

“I just miss him,” John says, a little plaintively. A little _pathetically_ , maybe, and he hadn’t meant to say that but the words had just come out, too much behind them to hold it back. 

Nick stops walking and turns to look at him, and his expression then is entirely sympathetic. John gets, belatedly, that Nick had been needling him deliberately, trying to get a reaction, and it’s apparently worked, because now he feels fucking miserable, instead of just tired and sad and a little lonely.   
“Yeah,” Nick says softly. “Sometimes it sucks.”

John leans against the wall of the building they’d been walking past, lets the long week settle in on his shoulders as he slumps. “I just—we’ve waited longer than this, it shouldn’t even make a difference this time, but it just feels harder this year. I don’t know, maybe I was expecting it to be easier now he’s closer.”

“Philly, right?” Nick asks delicately, and John feels his face color, a brief rush of embarrassment and a tiny bit of shame as he remembers that he never actually said anything outright, that Nick must have been guessing too. This is so stupid, he thinks, and nods sharply.

“Yeah,” John says, sighing again. “I mean, it was the off-season like five minutes ago, we had weeks together and it’s not like it’s my first season or anything. We’ve done this before. We’re _good_ at this. And it’s not like I haven’t talked to Sam,” and that’s it, the dice are well and truly cast now, John can’t take this back. “But it’s been a couple of days now and it just fucking sucks.”

Nick leans against the wall next to him and nods. He’s not meeting John’s eyes, not exactly, but John’s actually more comfortable having this conversation without making eye contact, it seems. It’s easier to show this kind of vulnerability if you can both pretend you’re just talking to the open air and not anyone else you have to be around later, he figures.

“We—that is, Saader and I,” he corrects. “We had a rough patch to start this year. You remember how the Jackets went,” Hard to forget, John thinks, wincing again as he tries to imagine what that would be like. Not that the Isles haven’t had worse streaks, and he shudders again remembering 2013. 

“It kind of made it harder,” Nick goes on. “I mean, I dunno, maybe it was always going to be weird this year.” He shrugs, letting that stand for a moment. 

“What do you—I mean, why do you think that?” John asks. Nick could mean any one of several things, as far as he can tell. And maybe being nosey about Nick’s relationship will take his mind off his own problems. Can’t hurt to try. 

“New team, new teammates, new city,” Nick says. “We, uh. Didn’t quite figure things out till after I came here, so it’s not like we actually had a whole lot of experience with the long distance thing. And divisional rivals is a bit different than seeing him twice a year.”

John can definitely agree with that. 

“Any trouble getting motivated to beat them anyway?” John asks, and Nick gives him exactly the look that stupid of a question is asking for and just says, too patiently, “You ever have any trouble wanting to beat the Oilers?” 

“Okay, right, sorry,” John says, and leans in, bumps his shoulder against Nick’s. “Yeah. It got better after that, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Nick says, and John’s still not looking directly at him, which means it takes him a couple of seconds to realize Nick is _blushing_.

“Oh shit,” John says. “You—we left right after that game, when did you even have _time_?”

“I was very motivated,” Nick says, primly, and doesn’t specify whether he means in showering fast or in finding a room with a door that locked. 

God, John hopes they found a door that locked. Not that he’s never been tempted himself from time to time to drag Sam off into a quiet corridor or something, but they’d always known that was a bad idea that could blow up in their faces. Could blow _something_ , that’s for sure.

“Kinky,” John says, and he surprises a laugh out of Nick at that.

He kind of means it, too. It’s not like he sits around thinking about what his teammates like in bed—although several of them have shared more than enough in the locker room at times that for some guys he doesn’t even need to guess—but if he had done, he wouldn’t have picked Leddy for that much of an exhibitionist. Or that much daring, anyway. John’s done some dumb stuff in his time to get laid, but he’s not sure he could actually get off in those circumstances. Though it’s not like he doesn’t understand the motivation. 

He chews on his lower lip and thinks for a second. If he had Sam right there and a guarantee of no consequences, well. Okay, yeah, maybe he could do it. He should damn well make time to call and catch up soon, if nothing else. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Nick says easily, and it’s John’s turn to laugh, surprised and pleased to find it easy to do so. 

Maybe this awkward conversation was exactly what he needed after all. It’s not as if he’s ever had much chance to talk to anyone but Sam about some of this stuff. However understanding and open some of his friends have been over the years, there’s some shit that you just don’t _get_ unless you’re living it. 

Ever since that conversation at Nick’s place a few months back, John’s been quietly paying more attention, and he can see some things that are all too clearly familiar, that he recognizes; the phone calls where Nick trails off fast when he gets closer to the rest of the group, the way he doesn’t speak up in some conversations, the way he fades subtly out of others. 

“So, uh, how long—?” he starts to ask, before second-guessing that. It’s none of his business, and normally he _wouldn’t_ ask, but he’d offered to talk, and Leddy seems to _want_ to talk and—so does John, if he’s being honest about it.

He so rarely gets to be completely honest.

Nick gives him an understanding nod. “It’s been a couple years. It’s—you get what I mean if I say it’s easier than I thought it would be, right?”

“Oh yeah,” John says, with feeling. “And so much worse in other ways.”

Nick nods, hums a “Yeah.”

John takes a deep breath, tries to dig down for what’s really bothering him. “The distance sucks. I mean, we always knew we’d be with different teams, so it’s not like we didn’t see it coming, but—I’d rather see him even if it means months apart than not be with him at all.”

“Maybe tell him that again sometime soon?” Nick suggests, very carefully, and John’s eyes widen even though he’s trying to play this cool. 

That’s—not a terrible idea, actually. He knows that, and he knows Sam knows that; they’ve talked about it before, especially back when they were first figuring out that they wanted to wait for each other, that this wasn’t going away even when first Sam and then John did. But when John thinks about how much it’s meant to him every time Sam’s told him that; with words and actions and the frantic passage of his hands over John’s skin when they see each other again for the first time in months—

It’s probably a good time to say that again himself. 

“Thanks, Leds,” he says. “Uh, you want to head back now?” 

John’s sort of at his quota for talking about his feelings—talking around them, whatever—and the sooner they get back the sooner he can maybe get his head out of his ass and just call Sam already. 

“Sounds good,” Nick says easily, and he knocks his shoulder against John’s companionably as they turn back towards the hotel. “Places to go, California teams to beat, et cetera, et cetera.”

“You got that right,” John says. 

* * *

Nick gets a lot of back pats in the room between the second and third period, plus a couple of taps to the back of his head. He shakes his helmet off, trying not to grin stupidly—they’re only up by one, it’s not like this is a foregone conclusion—and then Cal does something to his hair that Nick’s going to need a mirror to fix, he thinks, so he just gives up and sits in his stall, trying to get himself settled again for the third.

“What got into you, Leds?” Matty asks, raising an eyebrow and giving him a grin. “You getting bored out there? Tryin’ to steal our jobs, now, huh.”

Nick just grins, doesn’t say much of anything before he turns his attention to rehydrating, checking the tape on his socks. He’d pretty much done both those things in the box, too—there wasn’t a whole lot else to do with five minutes between shifts—but he’d wanted to make sure he was ready to go when he was back on the bench, didn’t want to cramp up or anything by the time he got back out there. And getting Giroux off the ice for five minutes as well wasn’t a bad trade.

“Way to go, Nick,” Johnny says, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he walks past, heading over to his own stall. 

He’s grinning pretty hard for the middle of a game that they’re winning and probably even dominating, but nothing’s for sure. And normally Johnny’s all business, serious right up to and after the media post games, but he’s looser tonight than he’s been in a while. When he wipes his face off on the bottom of his underarmor, jersey off and hanging behind him to dry out, Nick catches a glimpse of a bruise by his hip, red where his skin is never-sees-the-sun pale, where blocked shots usually come up blue or purple or brown. Nick blinks, realizes he’s staring and then thinks—oh right, the Flyers.

“Right back atcha, Johnny,” Nick says, pitching his voice so it carries across the room, and Johnny looks up, twigs to what Nick’s casually implying, and rather than blushing his face goes so carefully neutral that Nick knows he’s right. 

He couldn’t look guiltier if he tried. 

Nick reminds himself to tell him, at some point, that he should never, ever commit a crime or whatever because anyone looking at him could tell straight away.

Nick’s well aware his fight barely counts as that—he’s not sure he or Giroux really landed anything—and especially in comparison to Matty going with Simmonds near the end of the second as well, but he’s still buzzing on the adrenaline, still feeling it even by the end of the game, when they put the Flyers away with the empty-netter and a nice, solid home win.

He’s among the last guys out of the room after the game, the whole fight thing getting him a bit more of the media attention than usual, and he lingers over his shower too, moving deliberately as he gets himself together. 

He checks his phone on his way out of Barclays, sees a bunch of messages piling up; guys in group texts giving him shit for the whole first career fight thing, and a few of them trying to give him ‘helpful’ tips for next time. He fires back a lot of invitations for them to fuck off, collectively, although he has to take a little longer replying to Mikey, and to Boller, both of whom have sent him at least three messages worth of critique. He dishes back some advice about backchecking to Boller who’ll take that in the spirit it was intended, but Mikey just gets a series of emoji, because he doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to ‘acting like a tough guy.’ 

There’s nothing from Brandon, but Nick’s pretty sure he has his own game; he can check that when he gets home. He’s impatient, though, and it’s not like he has anything else to do since they’ve got the car service to get home, so he starts writing out a message to him anyway.

It’s nothing much, nothing that would get either of them a second glance if someone else happened to see either of their phones, just Nick checking in with a friend, asking how his night’s gone. It’s not like the guys try to steal each other’s phones all that much these days anyway—another benefit of being with a team that’s mostly family guys, people in stable relationships with young kids or babies on the way; that was really more of a Rockford thing, but Nick’s never gotten out of the habit of being wary.   
He can tell exactly when Brandon’s done with his postgame media and all, because first there’s a message that just reads, “Wait, what?” and then a second—probably after just enough time for Brandon to pull up the NHL app and find highlights—which just reads “Giroux??????”

Nick’s not sure whether he should be insulted or pleased by that, and he flips facetime open, connects to Brandon, and then embarrasses himself entirely by nearly walking into a pillar when he looks down at the phone in his hand to grin stupidly. Brandon’s hair is wet like he’s fresh from a shower and he’s a little red in the face, smiling at Nick, all white teeth and dimples and fuck, Nick is so gone for him.

“So how was your night, tough guy?” Brandon asks. “You get any hints from Boller yet?”

“Oh god,” Nick groans. “So many. This is apparently the best thing that’s happened to him all week,” and there’s a pause while they both exchange a look of silent understanding. 

“Do I even want to ask—?” Brandon says carefully. “It’s just. That’s not like you.”

Nick shrugs. The hit on Raffl hadn’t been one of his finest moments, even if he knew and he was pretty sure the Flyers knew too that it wasn’t like he’d done it deliberately. “He wanted to go, and I figured I should do it.”

Nick knows the code, and while he’s normally the one hauling guys out of scrums rather than getting into them, he knows what’s expected of him. And he knows he got off pretty easy thanks to Giroux being frustrated enough to start it; if it’d been anyone else on the other side he’d probably have a black eye to show off to Saader. As it is, he’s pretty sure all they’d done was swing wildly and look ridiculous. The refs had been determined to try and stop things from deteriorating any further, otherwise Nick figures maybe they would’ve just called it roughing.

“Well, I don’t think it’s gonna make hockey fights dot com,” Nick adds after a moment when neither of them has anything to say.

“I didn’t want to be the first one to point that out,” Brandon says immediately, eyes bright, that tiny mischievous grin that Nick thinks most people don’t even notice tugging at the corners of his lips; gently, affectionately making fun of Nick. 

He has this coming, too, he thinks.

“Pretty sure you hit me harder than he did the last time we were in Columbus,” Nick says, a little daringly. There’s no one else really around, no one to overhear, and Brandon had gotten him with a solid check along the boards last time they’d played, coming in hard on the forecheck and doing his best to get in Jaro’s crease. Like Nick had any intention of letting him or anyone else get away with that.

Nick had managed to shove him away and they’d both chased the puck behind the net. Brandon hadn’t exactly had much of a chance to get any kind of momentum up, but he’d got a shoulder into Nick just as Nick got the puck on his tape, and Nick had definitely felt that one.

Not just because of how he was wired to notice it every time Brandon touched him. Although that helped.

“You had that coming, too,” Brandon replies promptly. “It’s more fun when you’re not wearing pads, though,” and he lets that one dangle, words trailing off.

Nick goes hot and then cold, shivering a little even though it’s warm enough where he’s standing. That’s the way Brandon always sounds when he wants to fool around, and god, god does Nick ever want to do that. It’s easier said than done, of course; they’re hundreds of miles away from each other, and Nick’s a good half hour from his apartment and privacy still, and god only knows where Brandon is. Who might be overhearing him, even, and Nick can’t fight off the blush that thought puts on his face.

Brandon notices it, because of course he does. 

“I’m already home,” Brandon says smugly, and when he shifts Nick can see enough of the wall behind him to identify Brandon’s living room. “I watched the highlights,” he adds. “It was a terrible fight but it still kind of made me want to blow you.”

“Fuck,” Nick says. There’s no way—there’s nowhere he can even go right now, not to guarantee privacy. And he and Brandon have made some questionable choices in their time to get off, but this is just not going to happen, not right then.

“I can’t—” Nick starts to say. “I’m about to get in the car, they should get me home about thirty minutes from now. You still gonna be, uh, up?”

Brandon shrugs, Nick can just see the way his shoulders move, collarbone ducking in and out of frame, and gives him what is unequivocally a dirty, dirty grin. “I think I can promise that. I’ll… wait up.” He’ll wait, is what he’s not saying, but Nick can read between those lines just fine. 

And he’s going to be thinking about that the entire drive home. Thank god they have the car service this year; if it was just him Nick would be tempted to just pull over and take the risk. 

“Yeaaah, I’ll see you then,” Nick says, licking his lips.

“Later, Leds,” Brandon says, and just before he cuts the connection Nick can see just enough to tell that Brandon’s unbuttoned his pants, has his fingertips pushing just under the elastic of his underwear.

Nick can’t fucking wait to get home.

He hears voices behind him after that and takes a moment to appreciate his good luck in not being interrupted. It’s Clutter and Kyle, both grinning and talking easily; Kyle’s hands moving illustratively as he explains something. They all live close enough that they share cars as often as not; it gives them someone to talk to or commiserate with on bad nights, and it’s fun on nights like this, when they’ve got the points and the satisfaction and all of the good side of their job. Hopefully none of them is going to expect Nick to keep up most of his end of the conversation right now though, he’s going to have his hands full thinking about, well, what he wants to have his hands full of. 

He’s got to stop thinking about that. For the next half hour, at least.

“Hey, you see Matty yet?” Clutter asks, raising an eyebrow as they catch up to Nick. “He said something about JT and wandered off before we finished planning some shit for next week. Figured if he wasn’t in the locker room he’d have found you or something, but…” he trails off, leaving room for Nick to answer.

“I haven’t seen him,” he says honestly. Matty might be his closest friend on the Isles now, and him and Nick are pretty much a regular pair for any off-ice plans. He can’t imagine where Matt’s vanished to if he’s not out waiting for a car already, or why.

“Speak of the devil,” Kyle mutters, as they hear the door open and squeak closed again, Matt loping through it, bag hanging off his shoulder.

“Hey,” Nick says with a grin, when Matt catches up to them, and he reaches over to fist-bump him again. “Where were you, Clutter was moping and everything.”

“Ah, fuck off,” Clutter says, and Matt just shrugs. “Had some stuff to check on,” he says cryptically. “Wanted to check up on Johnny too, he was, uh, pretty fired up.”

“Ah,” Kyle says, like that means something more to him, and he and Matty exchange a look. Nick feels left out for all of a minute before it clicks; the Flyers, and JT being kind of weird and intense about it, and—okay, yeah, maybe none of them should worry about sticking around to check up on their captain. He’s probably just fine.

“Yeah, we should get going,” Nick says, not eager to hang around if it means there’s a chance of someone who doesn’t know seeing something they shouldn’t. 

Matty gives him a long look, but doesn’t say anything. Nick feels obscurely like he’s busted somehow, just from that, but no one asks, and no one tells, and they all get home safe and sound and pretty quick, too.

At least wondering how Johnny’s reunion with Gagner is working out gives Nick something to think about that isn’t just his hard-on.

He Skypes Brandon from his bedroom about thirty seconds after walking in the door, though, and that takes care of _that_.

* * *

It’s not that John’s unhappy about making the playoffs. That’s never going to get old, and he knows it’s never a given, never a guarantee. But until they actually go all the way and win it he’s always going to be dissatisfied with how they perform, critical of anything that’s not good enough to get them there.

And of course making the playoffs in the first place is something to celebrate, even if it feels like they’ve had to fight harder for it this year, but the expectations are higher, too. The Islanders haven’t gotten out of the first round in almost thirty years, and John wants to be the one to fucking finally get them there again. To get them that moment, to give that back to the fans who’ve been supporting them all these years. He wants it so bad he can just about taste it, and it keeps him on edge, on his toes, as they scrape through game after game against Florida, getting closer and closer.

But if he’s pleased-but-not-content about the Isles making it, he’s thrilled in a way he almost can’t believe that the Flyers of all teams managed to limp into the final Wild Card spot, that they somehow squeaked in and dragged themselves there, because John doesn’t give a shit about the Flyers—obviously—but even he has to take a moment to appreciate that Sam finally gets to play in the postseason.

They talk about it without actually talking about it, the same way most of their conversations go when Sam isn’t pushing John to actually talk about intangibles like feelings in a direct way, and even though talking is all it is—they haven’t had time or opportunity to fool around even over the phone in so long that John can’t actually remember the last time—he’s still buzzing when they finally say good night, just happy and relieved and more than a little desperately pleased that now Sam gets to have this too.

If he couldn’t have it with John, at least he gets a taste of it.

John’s still holding out a tiny scrap of hope that some day they’ll actually get to play together. It hasn’t happened yet and maybe it never will—maybe it never should—but unless they’re facing off on the ice, he’s always going to be firmly in Sam’s corner. 

So if that means a little traitorous cheering for the assholes in orange jerseys, well. So sue him.

Besides. He knows if they pulled off a miracle and did get past the Caps and then the Pens, well. The Isles can take them. Win-win, really.

* * *

The Flyers don’t get past the Caps, which is probably not really surprising, John thinks, but then the Isles can’t seem to do anything themselves against Tampa, either. With that and the way he can’t seem to do a damn thing himself in the last couple of games, as the postseason goes it falls pretty flat. 

The elation of winning the first round is hard to remember after going out on what might be their worst playoff game in recent history, and knowing how much the team is going to change over summer doesn’t make that any easier.

He does everything he has to do for the wrap up on the season, talks to the media until he’s almost sick of the sound of his own voice, and once everything’s squared away in New York he makes a grateful escape back to Toronto. He and Sam hole up in their place for a couple of days and just ignore the outside world, reacquainting themselves after what feels like the longest season apart ever. It might be the latest John’s ever played, and the same for Sam, but it’s still not exactly a deep run. It might be more honest, John realizes later, to say that he feels like that every year. No matter how long they have in the summer, it’s never enough time.

There is a lot of consolation sex, though.

Adding to the list of things they don’t really talk about is where Sam’s going next year, especially as it becomes clear that the Flyers aren’t re-signing him.

Sam doesn’t want to talk about that.

John might be a better boyfriend if he pushed for that, but they’ve managed just fine like this so far, and he’d rather worry quietly in the back of his mind and kiss Sam and not talk about it than wind up sleeping on the couch because he’s said something colossally stupid, however well meaning.

That lesson had been a tough one to learn for both of them, occasionally. Knowing someone practically forever doesn’t always mean you know where their sore spots are. 

Midway through the summer, Sam starts taking calls from his agent about a few teams that are interested, his voice getting lower and more intent every time. John opens his mouth to ask a few times but doesn’t actually get the words out, and he can’t regret that when he sees the way Sam’s shoulders get less tense when it’s clear he’s not going to push him. John’s always been fucking easy for Sam, even when things aren’t easy with him.

It’s August before John looks at him and thinks, “Now,” and when Sam grins back at him, hungry and relieved and fiercely determined all at once, all he needs to say is, “Columbus.”

“Couldn’t stay out of the division, huh?” John jokes after a moment, and Sam calls him a dick and then jumps him and neither of them actually get around to making their afternoon training that day.

As offseasons go, it could be worse.

* * *

Nick gets a new place over the summer, figures it’s time for him to buy, to actually settle down. Or at least, to settle down as much as he can where it’s just him. 

Apartment hunting is much less annoying when it’s not at the literal last minute, traded a couple days before the season even starts, although it’s a hot enough summer that Nick moves “already has A/C” up to the top of his priorities while he looks. That and a decent commute to both Barclays and Syosset were pretty much elbow-to-elbow in first place.

Brandon laughs at his snapchats, and sends back helpful advice like “remember to check the water pressure”, and unhelpful comments like “that bed looks too small”, which just makes Nick miss him even more, even though it’s been less than a month and they’ll probably get a couple of weeks together over the summer all up.

He doesn’t actually count, but he’s pretty sure he sweats through five or six different shirts in the space of three days, trekking all over town to look at listing after listing. He just manages to find a place that ticks all the boxes before he wants to leave town, and the timing works out great since it looks like they want to close on it a couple weeks before training camp. Or at least the approximation of training camp that comes with both their goalies and their captain off in Toronto playing for the World Cup. 

Nick walks into the place for the first time and thinks ‘maybe’, and walks through a couple times more that week before thinking, ‘okay, yes’ and calling his realtor back. Brandon signs off on it, too, gives Nick the same veto option that he’d given Brandon for his place in Columbus. 

When they sign all the paperwork and hand the keys over to him Nick just has to go lie on the floor in the kitchen for a while by himself and think, holy shit. It’s hard to comprehend this is all his now. He kind of gets now why Brandon was freaking out a bit when it was him. Although at least it’s not like Nick is dealing with this and a trade and a new contract all at once. This is more than enough change for him. It’s not going to feel quite right until Brandon can see it in person instead of through Nick’s phone camera, but it’s good enough. 

He gets to steal Brandon away for a couple days right after, spends some time with him and in the city, and it makes him feel more settled almost immediately. Brandon’s not gonna be there often, but they get everything set up so that he’s got space in the dresser and in the walk in closet, leaves just enough of his gear that it looks lived in. 

Nick hasn’t got to spend much time at Brandon’s place in Columbus yet either, but they’ll do the same there when they get a chance, and maybe some time soon Nick’ll get to go home with Brandon instead of to the hotel when they’re on the road. It’s not something he’s brought up with anyone but Brandon yet, but he’s thinking about it now. They’re not going to move too quickly down that road. 

But planning for it is… easier than he thought it was going to be, somehow.

It’s something that he wants to do, now. That they both want.

All too soon, the part of their summer which is free from any of their commitments vanishes on them, and Brandon heads back to Pittsburgh and his usual crowd there, while Nick gets back to his normal routine in Minnesota, spends some time with family and friends out there. He works out and plays a little hockey and catches up with the guys; swimming and wakeboarding and boating, about as successful fishing as he is in evening out his tan. The tan lines make Brandon laugh, at least; not that he’s any better.

They catch up when they can, and Nick makes a flying visit to Pittsburgh on his way back to New York, but it’s definitely just a day they’ve stolen away and not nearly enough to feel like they’ve really got to see each other. Normally, they’d have more time, but Nick’s season went long—albeit not long enough—and now Brandon’s starting early, heading up to Canada to play for the World Cup. 

Nick stretches out on his couch at home in New York and watches a couple of the games, doesn’t let himself think about the what-ifs, but he’s definitely paying attention more for Brandon’s sake than anything else. 

Practices pick up as more guys get back into town, and then it’s training camp proper, and Nick has enough on his plate to only just keep track of what’s going on in the rest of the world, doesn’t have time to do more than sack out and catch highlights or the evening games. 

The World Cup wraps up as they start playing through preseason games, and Nick suits up for a couple more of those than normal, starts feeling himself really solidly clicking back into place, legs moving and all the pieces working the way they’re supposed to. It feels good, but nothing like the way it will when they really get started, because there’s nothing like the games that matter, and the only thing that’s better than that is the postseason when you can get there.

They have a couple days off between their last preseason game and the beginning of the season, which means Nick has the majority of the team descend on him one night for preseason team bonding slash belated house-warming party. They at least gave him enough warning that the place is clean enough for company, and there’s nothing much hanging around that’ll raise any questions from anyone that Nick’s not ready to answer. 

No one’s going to overdo it that close to the start of the season, and as parties go it’s really more of a quiet one—with a lot more video games and chirping than anything else—but as it gets later people slowly drift off home in ones and twos. John has been nursing a drink for a while, sprawled in the recliner in the corner of the room, and when Zeeker and Clutter start to make noises about heading off—and leaving Nick to clean up—he gets up as well.

“I should probably head out too,” John says, and Nick catches his eye, and hopes the ‘wait a second’ look he’s giving him is actually translating. They can read each other pretty good on the ice, so Nick hopes that they can do the same then and there.

“Uh, I’ll help clean up a bit first, though,” he adds, and Zeeker grins over his shoulder and calls back, “Now that’s captain material,” as the door closes behind him. 

JT laughs and shakes his head indulgently, and then when he’s sure the door is actually closed and it’s just him and Nick he takes a last mouthful of his beer and then raises one eyebrow questioningly at Nick.

“What’s up, Leds?” he asks.

Nick reaches down behind the couch where he’d stashed it earlier and pulls out a bag that he tosses to John.

“House warming present,” Nick says, and John opens his mouth to try to say that Nick’s got that backwards, he’s meant to be getting the presents.

Nick deflects that with a wave of his hand and gives him a tiny smile. “Figured it was about time you get one of your own of these, even if it’s not quite the right blue.” 

John looks suspicious, and then grins despite himself as he pulls the shirt out of the bag. It’s another Blue Jackets t-shirt, not one of Brandon’s this time, but one he’d picked up as a favor for Nick, with Sam’s name and number on the back. The expression on John’s face is, Nick thinks, one he’s seen in the mirror a time or two.

“Thanks,” John says softly, and he looks down at the shirt in his hands, can’t seem to help himself before rubbing his thumb lightly over the edge of the 9, looking helplessly fond, more vulnerable than Nick’s seen him in a while.

“Yeah,” Nick says, with a little ‘I get it’ shrug, and they let the moment go, neither of them exactly wired to dwell on that kind of thing. “You can thank Saader for the assist there. Cheers, eh?” he adds, and they touch the necks of their beer bottles together with a quiet clink, a gentle salute to what they have in common but don’t—can’t— and won’t talk about directly all that often, recognition and rueful acknowledgment all together.

There’s a another pause, and then JT says, “this doesn’t mean I’m taking it easy on your boy next time we play them, though.”

“Me either,” Nick says. “And the same for yours, too.”

“Of course,” John says, and they grin at each other because, yeah, this is difficult and sometimes it hurts, but it’s still so fucking worth it, every time.

And a little easier when there’s someone else around who knows exactly what it’s like.


End file.
